A Monsieur la Cranque Adventure
My name is Daniel Rose and, as luck would have it, I was with Lady Featherstone at the time of her husband's unfortunate death. We were taking tea in the sitting room when we heard a gunshot from the direction of the greenhouse. I rushed outside. Lady Featherstone tried to follow me but her corset became wedged in the French windows, and consequentially I was the first to arrive at the scene.
Even now, the thought of what greeted me there fills me with horror. Shattered glass lay around the greenhouse, wherein Lord Featherstone lay dead amongst his tomatoes, a smoking revolver at his side.
"What is it?" Lady Featherstone called as she frantically struggled to free herself from the window. "What has happened?"
"It's your husband," I called back, my voice shaking. "I'm - I'm sorry, but I'm afraid he's not a pretty sight."
"I know that," Lady Featherstone replied, "Good grief, I should do - I've been married to him long enough."
"No, no," I interrupted her, finding it difficult to express myself. "You don't understand - he's dead."
"Dead, eh?" Lady Featherstone said, as she finally struggled through the windows and hobbled across the lawn towards me. "I thought he'd died years ago. He never used to say much anyway - just used to sit there while we poured brandy into him." She started poking the corpse with her walking stick, and nodded. "But yes, he certainly seems deader than usual now."
"I don't think we should disturb anything," I said, and taking Lady Featherstone's arm I led her back into the house, where we played strip poker as we waited for the police. By the time Inspector Plankton arrived, I was losing badly.
"Good evening, Inspector," I greeted him as I pulled on my anorak and trousers. "Thank goodness you're here! I was almost down to my socks."
"Indeed sir," said the Inspector. "May I introduce you to Monsieur Anton la Cranque, the internationally renowned Belgian detective?"
"Certainly, you may Inspector," warbled her Ladyship. "Is he house trained?"
Monsieur la Cranque inclined his head slightly. "Madame, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I hope I will be of some assistance in bringing the perpetrator of this terrible crime to justice."
"What's that?" Lady F replied. "A crime, you say?"
"Why, the callous murder of your husband, Madame," the Belgian reminded her.
"Oh yes, that," Lady Featherstone mumbled. She balanced her spectacles on the bridge of her nose and examined him. "So, you are a private dick, Monsieur la Cranque?"
"No Madame," said la Cranque graciously. "Just a clever dick."
We sat down as the maid bought some tea and buns, and I related the events of that afternoon in as much detail as I could remember. As I spoke, Inspector Plankton scribbled away in his notebook and when I had finished my account he looked up sternly.
"So, let me just clarify this," he said. "Lord and Lady Featherstone were in the sitting room when they heard a shot. They rushed outside to find your good self dead in the greenhouse?"
"No, no," I said. "You've got it the wrong way round."
"Have I?" said the Inspector, taken aback. "So Lord and Lady Featherstone were in the greenhouse when they heard your good self. They rushed inside to find a shot, dead in the sitting room?" He paused. "It doesn't make an awful lot of sense to me sir. I think you'd better run it by me one more time."
"It's perfectly simple, Inspector," I said. "Featherstone was shot in the greenhouse."
"Nasty."
"Shot dead!"
Monsieur La Crank had been picking the currants out of an Eccles cake, and he chose this moment to speak. "Shot dead?" he said and he turned to Lady Featherstone. "Were you my dear? How very distressing for you. Did it hurt?"
"Lady Featherstone isn't dead," I interrupted. "Lord Featherstone was the one who was shot."
"Of course, of course," said la Cranque with an embarrassed laugh. "Why, it is quite obvious that this woman is not dead. Not yet, anyway. Very soon I should imagine, but not today. Very well, we'd better speak to Lord Featherstone."
"Lord Featherstone is dead," I replied wearily. "I thought we'd established that."
"I know that!" said la Cranque, with a touch of anger. "Lord Featherstone is dead, otherwise there would be no crime here. But does that mean that we cannot ask him questions, Monsieur?"
"You can ask him as many questions as you like," I said. "He's not going to give you any answers."
Monsieur la Cranque tapped the side of his nose and smiled. "There are many ways to make a man talk."
"Well, I can't sit here all day," said Inspector Plankton as he stood up. "I have to go and fetch the wife from the acupuncturists."
"Inspector," I said as I followed him to the door, "surely you're not leaving?"
"Don't worry, I'll leave you in the capable hands of Monsieur la Cranque - he'll have this whole case sewn up in no time." The Inspector moved closer to me and spoke in a low voice. "He usually gets tanked up before an investigation, but it wears off after a while." He patted my shoulder then left quickly.
* * *
For a man reputed to be the foremost detective of his time, Monsieur la Cranque didn't seem to have much of clue about anything. I thought it prudent to stick close by him during the course of his investigation. He announced his intention to interview the staff and so we began in the scullery, where la Cranque put a series of searching questions to the maid.
"What is your favourite colour?" la Cranque screamed in his most vicious and frightful voice.
The servant girl quaked in her chair. "Blue," she squeaked, in a terrified whisper.
"What is your favourite flower?" la Cranque shouted, in a voice that surpassed both the viciousness and the frightfulness of his previously most vicious and frightful voice.
The servant girl was rapidly becoming a quivering wreck and it was at this point that I felt it necessary to intercede. I called a temporary halt to the proceedings and led la Cranque over to a corner of the room. "Are these questions really necessary?"
"Of course," la Cranque replied, a little petulantly.
"But surely such matters are immaterial?"
"You may well think so, Monsieur," la Cranque said. "But then you are not a great detective. You do not see the things which I see."
"Maybe not," I said, "but I don't understand why you need to frighten the poor girl silly. You're behaving as if she murdered Lord Featherstone."
"Is that so impossible Monsieur?" la Cranque crooned, with an air of Belgian mystery. "Everyone is a suspect and yet nobody is a suspect. All are guilty and yet all are innocent. We can eliminate no one. The butcher, the baker, the beggar, the thief - all come under the ever watchful eye of Monsieur la Cranque." He pointed to his right eye. "This one."
He turned and stalked back towards the maid. She cowered as he approached. "Very well, my dear," said la Cranque. "It is about time you stopped giving me all this crap about favourite colours and started answering some straight questions, no? Where were you when the Featherstone family were murdered?"
"I was in town," the maid replied briskly.
"Whereabouts in town?" snapped Monsieur la Cranque.
"In the High Street," said the maid.
"But whereabouts in the high street?" la Cranque demanded.
"In the Co-op," the maid replied.
"Whereabouts in the Co-op?" la Cranque barked.
"Just next to the tinned peas," said the maid.
"Ha! A likely story," the great detective responded. "How many times have I heard that same excuse?"
The maid suddenly stood up. "Look I've had enough of this," she said. "Who the hell are you?"
"I," said la Cranque, with customary arrogance, "am the most famous detective in all of Belgium."
"Oh, I see," the maid replied, nodding. "A private dick?"
"No, just a clever dick," said la Cranque, again. "Now Mademoiselle, about these tinned peas."
"Stuff the tinned peas!" said the maid. "I had nothing to do with the murder. You'd be better off talking to the gardener. He hated his Lordship, and they were always arguing. I'll lay odds that he's the murderer."
* * *
We withdrew from the scullery, leaving the maid to resume her duties. Now that we had this valuable lead, I assumed that the case would soon be solved. However, to my considerable surprise, la Cranque totally dismissed the maid's comments. Instead of finding the gardener we sought out the butler, and he was not pleased to see us.
"I am not at all pleased to see you," said the butler.
"People seldom are, Monsieur butler chappy," said the eminent Belgian. "But I'm afraid I must ask you a few questions."
"I assume you are the private detective?" the butler inquired.
"No, just a clever dick," replied Monsieur la Cranque. "And I must tell you that I have an infallible nose for the truth." He pointed to his nose. "This one. So, if you attempt to lie to me, I will know in an instant. So, what were you doing at the time Lord Featherstone exploded?"
"I was being chased down the M1 by a giant chicken wearing Wellington boots," responded the butler.
"A watertight alibi!" declared la Cranque. "It seems we must consider another suspect."
"If I might make a suggestion, sir," the butler said. "Why don't you speak to Evans, the gardener? I understand that he and Lord Featherstone were bitter enemies."
I thanked the butler for his help, and we left him to get on with his polishing. Surely now Monsieur la Cranque would not fail to follow up this avenue of investigation? But the great Belgian sighed and slowly shook his head.
"We are getting nowhere," he said.
"But the gardener!" I exclaimed.
"The gardener?" la Cranque said, raising a single eyebrow. "No, that is rather too convenient. I believe that there is more to this case than meets the eye. What we really need is a witness."
"But there are no witnesses," I protested.
"Oh yes Monsieur, there is one," la Cranque said enigmatically. "The victim himself. Come, let us speak with Lord Featherstone."
* * *
In spite of my objections, we went to find the late Lord Featherstone. His body had been laid out in the parlour. His skin was pale and grey, his eyes cold and dead - but none of this deterred the eminent Belgian detective, Anton la Cranque.
"Lord Featherstone?" la Cranque said, leaning over the body.
"Really, Monsieur la Cranque," I said. "There is no point to any of this."
"Please be quiet," la Cranque said and he tried again. "Lord Featherstone? I wonder if we could ask you a few questions? I am sorry for disturbing you at this hour. I realise that this may be a very difficult time for you, what with you being dead and everything. Regretfully, however, there are a few things that we need to clear up."
I sighed loudly. "What do you hope to learn from a dead man?" I asked.
"A great deal," la Cranque snapped back at me, then continued to address the corpse. "Lord Featherstone, could you please tell us exactly where you were at the time of your own murder?"
"Ha!" I cried. "Isn't it obvious?"
"Nothing is obvious in a case of this nature," la Cranque replied. "Lord Featherstone, would you like me to repeat the question?"
"I don't think he can hear you."
la Cranque looked up at me. "Is his Lordship hard of hearing?"
"No," I said. "I think it's something to do with him not being alive anymore."
la Cranque let out a huge sigh and straightened. "Clearly, Lord Featherstone is reluctant to talk about this matter. It is a great pity. Now, I think we ought to visit the scene of the crime."
"Ah good!" I exclaimed delightedly. This was the first sane suggestion that the detective had made. "The greenhouse!"
"No," the Belgian replied. "Manchester."
My hopes were dashed. "Manchester?" I repeated quizzically. "I thought you said that we were going to visit the scene of the crime."
"Ah yes," la Cranque said. "But what you are forgetting is that, although the body was found in the greenhouse, he could easily have been killed elsewhere. Like Manchester."
* * *
And so we found ourselves on the next train to Manchester. After wandering around the city centre for almost an hour, la Cranque led us into a back street cafe 'on a hunch'. There he questioned a waitress on the possibility of obtaining a cheese and tomato sandwich and when this matter had reached a satisfactory conclusion we returned home.
"I think," said the great detective as he stepped off the train, "that we shall - arrrgghhh!"
That's what happens if you try to get off a train while it's still doing forty miles an hour.
"I think we shall interview the gardener next," la Cranque told me when I caught up with him at the hospital. At last! We set out immediately - myself on the crest of a new wave of optimism and la Cranque on crutches. We found the gardener in the potting shed, slicing up a dead body with his hedge shears.
"You must be the private cock," said the gardener when he saw us.
"Dick," said la Cranque.
"Suit yourself," said the gardener.
la Cranque squared up to him. "Now I am going to ask you just one question, and I want you to think very carefully before you answer. Did you kill Lord Featherstone?"
The gardener thought very carefully. "No," he said.
"Are you sure?" la Cranque asked slyly.
"Positive," answered the gardener. "I would have remembered."
Monsieur la Cranque sighed. "Well that is that, then," he said. "It seems we have drawn a blank."
"But just look at the fellow," I protested. "He's caked in blood."
"I cut myself shaving," the gardener explained.
"But of course," said la Cranque, with a shrug. "It happens to us all."
"But he was there, in the greenhouse - the scene of the crime!" I argued.
"So what?" said the gardener. "So was the wheelbarrow, why don't you interrogate that?"
la Cranque shook his head sorrowfully and placed his hand on my shoulder. "You know my friend," he said, "if he wasn't already dead, I would be almost certain that Lord Featherstone himself was the murderer."
"If Lord Featherstone wasn't dead, there wouldn't be a murderer," I argued.
"Ah yes, good point," he agreed. "This is indeed a difficult case. I shall have to deliberate on the matter in some detail."
He patted me on the back and then wandered off, deep in thought.
* * *
The great detective spent the rest of the day moping about the gardens, occasionally taking time out to interview the wheelbarrow and other garden implements. In my exasperation, I left him to it. As evening approached he requested that the entire household assemble in the library. Since Featherstone Manor did not have a library, we had no choice but to build one, and - even if I do say so myself - the brickwork was splendid, considering the limited time we had to complete it.
Monsieur la Cranque was late, but when he did arrive he had the wheelbarrow with him.
"What is the meaning of this?" demanded the butler. "Why have you gathered us here in this ridiculously clichéd fashion?"
"Please sit down and I shall explain," la Cranque said calmly. "I have gathered you here because a crime has been committed and a murderer walks amongst us. Also because I want to show off."
He wandered casually over to the maid. "During the course of my inquiries, I have had occasion to question all of you. The maid here, with her unreasonable fixation for tinned peas." He turned to the butler. "And you sir, the smart-arsed butler, who is clearly asking for a slap, no? I have even questioned Lord Featherstone himself, who seems to think that being dead somehow excludes him from my investigation. In many ways he is responsible for all of this, for had he not been reckless enough to get himself killed in the first place, none of this would be happening."
"And what have you discovered?" I interrupted.
"You may well ask," la Cranque replied.
"I am asking," I said. "Have you found out who the killer is?"
There was a long, long pause. "No," he finally admitted. "But does it really matter who killed him? The man is dead, and that is that."
An uneasy silence settled over the room. la Cranque walked over to the wheelbarrow and laid a gentle palm on its handle.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he announced grandly. "I found something very special today; I found love. A very special kind of love: the kind of love that can only exist between a man and an inanimate piece of garden equipment. I'm going to marry this wheelbarrow and you're all invited to the wedding."
And what a wonderful wedding it was. I cried. The wheelbarrow looked radiant in its full-length gown and tiara and even la Cranque was resplendent in his Bacofoil trousers and tin hat.
As for Lord Featherstone, we never did find out who killed him. Not that Lady Featherstone was greatly concerned. She had her husband stuffed and mounted, and now he's on display in the new library.
She says she prefers him like that.
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